


The very first

by finlyfoe



Category: Homeland
Genre: Christmas, Deception, F/M, Family, Gen, Season/Series 02, Siblings, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:37:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: To avoid this year's Christmas dinner with Maggie and the family, Carrie takes refuge at the agency, presuming no-one else will be around.Especially not Peter Quinn.She's mistaken...My input for the LJ advent calendar on Dec 17, 2016





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly Christmas! Time to say thank you
> 
> \- to koalathebear for unwavering betareading!
> 
> \- to ascloseasthis, leblanc1 and snqa for sharing their American Christmas rituals, traditions, memoirs (or lack thereof) with me. So sorry I pestered you and THAT's what came out of it...
> 
> \- to HML for you-know-what ;-)
> 
> You rock!

On Christmas day, Carrie wakes up before sunrise and can’t be bothered to get up. Can’t even be bothered to open her eyes. She lies very still, the blinds closed, the room dark, her mood darker.

She spent Christmas eve at an up-market bar, flirting, dancing, drinking - and feeling sorry for herself. No call, no note, no nothing.

It takes her ages to finally let herself sneak a look at her phone. Again, no call.

Well, that's not entirely true. Maggie's called and left a message telling that they'll be starting dinner at 3 pm sharp and that she's expected to join a nice long walk with the family beforehand, so could she please arrive at noon and try to be on time for a change.

He's spending Christmas with his family. Of course he is. That’s what Congressmen do, right. His PR advisors probably made him invite a pack of journalists to attend, to manufacture a story book image of domestic perfection.

She well knows it’s… complete and utter madness… her infatuation with Brody. - Fuck knowledge.

She doesn’t feel like getting up. Ever again. She doesn’t feel like Christmas. At all.  God.  How on earth is she going to survive Maggie’s Q&A (“Are you seeing someone?”, “Are you taking your meds?”, “Don’t you think you've had enough of that wine?”), her dad’s foolishness, the kids’ enthusiasm for silly games?

“I hate Christmas. I hate it.”

There. She's said it. Aloud. No earthquake ensues, no lightning bolt from the skies, no Santa materializing to repossess the presents she's been given over the years.  
So that’s settled it: She's going to get out of this year’s family Christmas dinner…

Her hand reaches for her cell. She'll leave a quick message on Maggie’s voice mail, then dive back into the safety of her bed…

Unfortunately however Maggie's already awake. Of course she is, hers is a household with children, and this is Christmas day after all.

“Maggie – oh, you’re up… Did I wake you?”

“Are you kidding? I'm stuffing the turkey, and the girls can’t wait to-“

“Maggie, I am so sorry, but I won’t be able to make it today.”

“What? What do you mean, you won’t be able -“

“I've gotta work.”

“You’re joking! Carrie, it’s Christmas!”

“I’m aware of that… but my boss…”

“But Carrie, you tell Saul we're Catholic, that Christmas is important to us and-“

“It’s not Saul. It’s this… new guy. A complete pain in the ass.  I tried to talk to him, of course I did, but – he's stubborn as a mule… Totally full of himself you know… God, I hate that guy, but what can I do, he’s my boss…  if he says, I've gotta to work, there’s nothing I can do about it… I am really, really sorry…” (Is there a separate circle of hell for people who lie on Christmas day?)

Maggie is clearly very upset. “Carrie, but – I mean – he can’t make you miss your Christmas dinner at such short notice….”

“He can and he is.”

“I’ll write you a medical certificate. If he wants to make you work on Christmas day, we are perfectly entitled to do this, it’s pure self-defense… you work far too hard anyway, ridiculously long hours, they've _so_ got it coming…”

“No – no… I mean, it wouldn’t be fair on the others, you know. They’d have to take over my duties… Look, Mag, I'm a big girl… I’ll survive… ”

“Great, so you are – relieved you'll miss the family dinner, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, not at all, Maggie, you know I love Christmas… I would _love_ to be with you…“

 “The girls were _so_ looking forward to having you here…”

“I’ll make it up to them. I promise. I’ll drop by tomorrow… or on Saturday, I promise. I’ll bring their presents, so I guess they’ll forgive me… look – gotta run now… I was due half an hour ago…”

God, Maggie can be so obnoxious!

Carrie lies down again, closes her eyes, pulls the duvet over her chin. No way she’s going to leave her bed, her haven. Not today.

Abruptly, her eyes open with a snap. What if Maggie hasn't bought her story… what if she comes by and checks up on her little sister. You can’t put it past her - and then she’ll be fucked.

Cursing, Carrie gets up and drags herself into the shower. This family forces her to do this humbling thing: To go to work on Christmas day to keep up appearances. Not to work-work – but to be physically present at the agency just because she has nowhere else to hide from them.  It's a lowering thought.

Fine.  She'll grab her iPod, a book and a bottle of Chardonnay and make herself comfortable at the office. It will be completely deserted and entirely at her disposal. Not as cozy as her bed, but cozy enough. Much cozier than a family dinner if you’re feeling blue and trying your damnedest to live the life of a hermit.

 ***

It turns out that this Christmas is just a string of bad luck: First, there's no more Chardonnay in the house.  
Secondly, it appears that she's not going to be the only one there in the office on Christmas Day: There's another car parked in the lot, something black, something unobtrusive, clearly a rental… She greets the guard at the entrance and takes the stairs towards the open plan office.

When she walks in, she sees him sitting relaxed on the window sill, window wide open (even though there is a strict closed windows policy, to keep the heating/air conditioning running), his head and his back leaning against the casement, legs dangling on the outside, a cigarette in hand, ear buds in his ears – like a freshman, young and carefree.

Peter Quinn. Of all people. Jesus Fucking Christ.

He looks right at her, acknowledges her presence by raising his hand in a half-hearted salute, takes a last drag, flicks the butt of the cigarette away.  It disappears from their view, sailing five floors down to the ground.

“Here to secretly do yourself in on Christmas Day, Quinn?”

“Here to get out of the family dinner, Carrie?”

He steps down from the window sill and closes the window.

What kind of music might he be listening to? Something awful, that’s for sure… Hard rock? Country?  No, she’s not going to ask. Nothing about Peter Quinn is of any interest to her.

“Hey”, he says with a half-grin, “Cup of coffee?”, and he puts down his mp3-player and the ear buds and walks off into the kitchenette.

She stays behind. She has a pretty good idea of what he has on offer … and she wants to make good use of the few minutes she has to herself.  She grabs his music player and presses play.

No hard rock.  No Country and Western. Not even Westcoast Swing.  It's a news podcast - in fucking Urdu, from the sound of it. (It’s not one of her languages.) So the geek is working on his language skills even on Christmas Day!

She’s barely got time to put his music player back down when he returns carrying two mugs, handing her one-

“Got this present in the Secret Santa”, he starts explaining, “can’t guarantee it's going to be a gourmet experience… Irish coffee, at least that’s what it says on the label.-” holding up a couple of sachets.

She knows all about this present.  It sucks.

 _She_ was the one responsible for this Secret Santa gift. She'd had no idea what to get him in the first place. (The anger-management counseling Brody insists Quinn needs would have far exceeded the price parameters of the Secret Santa…) –  
To be honest, she didn’t give a fuck about the Secret Santa for Peter Quinn. Totally forgotten it within an hour. Or maybe she'd just repressed it… On the day the Secret Santa gifts were due, when she had suddenly remembered, she'd rushed off to the next best convenience store to get something, anything.  In the end, all she'd been able to come up with was cheap instant coffee in sachets with grandiose names promising a revelation for the taste buds  – she'd opted for something boastfully titled “Irish Coffee”.

“What about some milk?”, she demands, pretty picky for someone being served.

“Sorry to disappoint. No milk. Looks like someone made good on their new year resolutions early… the fridge is all empty and cleaned out.”

She has to see this for herself.

The fridge _is_ cleaned out.

The coffee is shite. There is no politer way to put it. Peter Quinn seems annoyingly delighted. “I knew it”, he says, “Irish coffee, my arse…”, and he looks extremely smug that he's made her share this awful experience.

Carrie sighs and gets _her_ secret Santa gift out of the drawer of her desk: A miniature flask of whiskey, just enough to pimp up two coffees to make them drinkable. The delighted gleam in his eyes gives him away: So he knew all along that she had whiskey! Maybe he even knows that she was the giver of the disgraceful sachets of instant coffee ...

 “So what's with spending Christmas day at the office, Quinn?" she asks in an attempt to distract him, “why didn’t you drive up to Philly for a classy Main Line dinner?”

“We don’t celebrate Christmas. Bunch of heathens.”

“So how did you spend your Christmases when you were a kid then?”

“Abroad. Dream vacations in exotic countries.”

“The whole family, parents, brothers, sister…?

“No siblings that I know of.”

“Fits. Only child.  Spoilt brat… Self-centered, cocky…”

“What was it you got your degree in, Carrie – armchair psychology or reading tea leaves?”

“Both.  But your parents would surely have loved to have their precious son over for a visit today, heathens or not…”

“Old dogs don’t learn new tricks.”

“Meaning what?”

“They’re on vacation in the DomRep.”

“How come you’re here then?”

“I'm over 21… plus I've got work to do. What about you, Carrie? Brody didn’t take you helicopter-skiing in the Rockies?”, he scoffs. She shoots him a murderous gaze.

 “Seriously - what about you, Carrie? What’s so bad about your family you rather be here?”

“Nothing. They are great. We had our Christmas dinner yesterday, we always have”, she bluffs, “it was fabulous. A nice long walk before dinner…. Then turkey… pavlova… wine… coffee… games – you sure never had any?”, and she holds his gaze to make sure a) she looks all innocent and b) he can’t let his imagination run wild. Well, he still can, but at least he has to put some effort in it. No Christmas dinner, ever? – Hard to believe.

He shrugs. “Come to think of it - once, I guess. With some traditional-minded Irish family. Clam chowder. Not really something I care to repeat.”

“So you’re not a seafood-lover?”

“Depends.”

“The protein is supposed to be an aphrodisiac… your ER nurse might appreciate it.”

“Did it work for Brody?”

She rolls her eyes at his obvious amusement, then suggests: “Let’s go for a smoke.” The sun is out, and she really could do with some light to cheer her up… Yeah, she wouldn’t mind taking a little stroll with Quinn under that blue midday sky of December.  
He glances at his watch.  - _Is he seriously pretending he actually has work to do?_   - Then he nods.  They get their coats and he locks the office.

“We could go for lunch”, she suggests as they arrive at the parking lot, “something French –  bouillabaisse for you….”

“I prefer other things French”, he says, suggestively holding two cigarettes between his lips, lighting them, handing one over. Their hands touch for a fraction of a second and Carrie feels an electric shock.

“Ouch, are you trying to electrocute me?!”  
Laughter. Looks and smiles. The whiskey obviously works. All of a sudden she has this crazy idea… they might… find some other way… to spend an enjoyable Christmas day… if only… to get even with…- the sheer thought how Brody would _hate_ it, if she… with Quinn…

But then the thought is lost, as her phone rings and her pulse starts racing.-  
Maggie.  
Who else.

“Look, Carrie”, she starts before Carrie can even say hi, “we’ll pick you up. Let me talk to this boss of yours, let me talk some sense into him-“

Before Carrie can exclaim “No”, a car comes hurtling down the road, stopping only inches in front of the barrier, brakes screeching loudly, causing the guard in the guard-house to run out, gun in hand…

Frank's driving - obviously.

Hastily Carrie throws away her cigarette.  
“It’s ok, it’s ok”, she shouts and holds up a hand at the guard, “it’s my family, they are…”

“…all morons”, Quinn suggests, obviously enjoying the show even more than his cigarette, and that means a lot, given the perfect smoke rings he's blowing.

Carrie runs up to the car, still afraid they might get shot over a bloody Christmas dinner and a white lie. She doesn’t notice Quinn is following.

Maggie gets out and starts talking, hands gesturing emphatically.

“So, where is that boss of yours? I wanna have a word with him right now,” and before Carrie has the chance to utter a single syllable, Quinn steps up and offers his hand: “That would be me I guess. Peter Quinn. And you must be Carrie’s sister … ”

Maggie shakes his hand a bit too forcefully, “Maggie”, she says and studies him, and suddenly a strange thing happens. Carrie sees Quinn through Maggie’s eyes. A lanky man, dressed casually, the right age, handsome if you are into blue eyes and cheekbones and an over-abundance of male self-assurance, and she realizes Maggie will be pestering her about him. About her “nice new boss.” As if anything about Quinn was nice!

“Pleased to meet you, Peter… may I call you Peter? …. but not pleased about the circumstances. It’s Christmas, are you aware of that?”

“Oh – that explains the crappy music on the radio…” he jokes, and Carrie smiles.

_Yeah, don’t take any shit from Maggie, Quinn!_

“Just kidding”, he says, _God does he think Maggie is stupid?!,_ “I guess you’d have to be E.T. or living in Medina not to notice… So, how can I help you, Maggie? Should I get you a visitor’s badge and show you around? They have a nice Christmas tree in the lobby, the presents are all fake of course.”

Fuck. How dare he! She's always been emphatic that she wasn't able to let Maggie inside…

Maggie seems also slightly taken aback by his confident and charming offer.

“No – no thanks, on the contrary. I actually wanted to take Carrie away.”

Carrie hastily interjects: “I told her we have to work today… on this – new and urgent assignment…”

_Please, Quinn, please, don’t throw me under the bus!_

His eyes wander from one Mathison sister to the other and then back again. Carrie would love nothing better than to wipe that smug smile from his face.

“I see”, he says noncommittally.

“Peter… This is Christmas. We don’t observe many traditions in our family, but this one is important to us, and I really don’t understand why all the work you make my sister do can’t wait till tomorrow. It’s Christmas, Peter, in fact, _you_ should also be with your family.”

“He doesn’t celebrate Christmas”, Carrie snaps.

“Oh I am sorry - are you Jewish?”

“He’s a heathen.”

Maggie shoots Carrie an annoyed look.

“Afraid so,” he confesses, bowing ever so slightly.

_Thank you Quinn, I’ll get you a decent coffee next Christmas, I promise!_

“Nonetheless I do respect your beliefs, Maggie… I won’t hold Carrie back here against her will. Uhuh, course not. She is free to go and join your family dinner anytime, if that’s what she wants to do…”

 _That fucker!_ _Throwing the hot potato back at me!_

A radiant smile breaks over Maggie’s face. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear!”

Carrie tries valiantly to keep the ship from sinking: “But Quinn – it wouldn’t be fair to leave you with all that work that needs to be done today…” Her eyes all big and begging.

“Don’t worry, Carrie, I’ll manage”, he says sweetly. “That’s why I'm the boss after all – more responsibility, longer working hours, more money”, and he gives her a wink and that irritatingly fleeting smile of his.

“Thank you”, Maggie starts again, “you've made our day!”

At least Quinn has the decency to interrupt Maggie's praise.  “To be honest, there’s not much left on our desks that demands our immediate attention… Carrie, although I have a deep respect for your sense of obligation, off you go – no need to give it a second thought .. no need to feel guilty…“ His eyes gleam with amusement -  a prodigy of self-control he doesn’t start chuckling.

Maggie takes her sister’s arm, hesitates and takes another look at Quinn who’s now back to blowing perfect smoke rings into the cool December air.

“Peter“, Maggie starts, “you shouldn’t be spending Christmas day alone, working.”

“Ah, not to worry…”

“No really, you are more than welcome to join us. There’s always enough food on the table and wine for a guest. What do you think, Carrie – shouldn’t Peter join us for dinner?”

 _Fuck you Maggie, you can’t be serious! Not only do you pick me up and drag me away to your Christmas dinner table like a little girl – now you invite Peter Fucking Quinn over who’ll love to rub salt into... and show off … boring us with stories about… his snobby family… God, the girls might team us up for the games… “Taboo”… no-one every gets my explanations, it’s so… annoying…. OK, so he couldn’t make it worse. Maybe_ he’d _get me… he does at work… I might actually win for a change … So... Nonono, after a couple of glasses of wine he might give away …. how I was trying to dodge the family Christmas dinner… oh, and that I smoke… and Brody-_

His voice interrupts her train of thoughts. “That is incredibly kind and generous of you, Maggie, inviting strangers into your house, and I am sure Carrie would love me to join” – another slightly malicious grin aimed at Carrie.  He holds her gaze for a moment too long. She fights a smile. He _is_ pretty good at making things up.  Mixing fact with fiction. Changing tactics mid-stride.

“- but sadly enough, I have to turn down your generous offer. I have an appointment. With one of _my_ bosses.”

_Pompous ass. As if…_

“Oh – I’m sorry to hear… Peter - do you want me to have a word with this boss of yours? I can be very persuasive…” Maggie offers.

“The Mathison trademark, yeah … But no, no need to. It's all good.”

And he gives Carrie a “don’t worry, I'm off your back” smile.

“Your boss, now who would that be on Christmas Eve…”, she taunts, forgetting some words of wisdom about not throwing stones while you’re still sitting in a glass house, “let me guess. Blonde? Brunette? Ginger?”

“Balding…”, Quinn retorts, and at that very instant a sedan with tinted windows pulls up. Quinn raises his hand in greeting, mirroring the gesture with which he welcomed Carrie an hour ago, then steps up to the car, opens the door and gets in.

“Happy holidays”, he calls out to the Mathison women before closing the door. The driver accelerates.

“Nice guy”, Maggie muses, “the kind who’d help with the dishes ... but what a slave to his job!”

“Yeah, who would have guessed… I wonder who’s in that car…” Carrie murmurs and follows her sister to Frank’s car, her resistance gone with the wind.

And for a few moments she finds herself feeling almost regretful that Quinn isn't coming along.  It might have been - fun. He might have been fun. He surely would have distracted Maggie.

And they might have won that “Taboo”.

 

-The End -

**Author's Note:**

> The title???  
> This whole fic calendar thing started on musing how Dar Adal might spoil C/Q Xmases in 20, no 24 different ways.  
> So I felt obliged to give you at least one of those spoiled Christmases. Even though none of the characters might have been aware at the time...
> 
> Quinn here is rather mouthy, given his usual lack of lines - for me it was fun having the s. 2 guy back, and in my headcanon he immensely enjoyed putting on a performance to tease Carrie.


End file.
